


Empty Bottles

by Lucifabulous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifabulous/pseuds/Lucifabulous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This work is still under development and I apologize for the lack of updates, but I've lost interest in this plot.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is still under development and I apologize for the lack of updates, but I've lost interest in this plot.

“Dean.” Sam pulled a leather bound book from the shelf, turning and catching a glimpse of the window open on his brother’s screen. “Seriously, can you at least try to focus.” Dean grunted, shutting the laptop and grabbing a random book from the shelf behind him. 

“ _The History of Evansville, Indiana_ *.” Sam mused. “Seems relevant.” 

“Hey, how do you know we’re researching the same case? It happens that the town is known for....” Dean scanned the back of the book, hoping for a clue. “ ‘Supernatural occurrences,’ “ 

“Yeah, doofus, its on a fault line.” Sam snatched the book from Dean’s grip, replacing it with an unlabeled book. “How about you take a look at some of the Men of Letters journals. Be productive.” Dean grumbled, reclining in his chair and putting his feet up on the table. 

Sam crossed back to his seat, surrounded by pictures and notes scribbled on pieces of legal paper torn carelessly from the pad. “Hey, what happened to Cas?” 

Dean sighed, “I don’t know man, he probably got lost in WalMart or PetCo. He’ll call if he needs us.” The brothers worked silently, Dean checking his phone habitually, feeling a little worried that Cas hadn’t called. 

Sam suddenly sat up, shuffling through his notes. He stood up, grabbing the box of thumbtacks and a red sharpie and marking a few places on map. He turned back around, staring at Dean as if he expected his brother to come to the same conclusion. “Changelings.” 

“Dude, how can you possibly know that? We haven’t interrogated any of the victims, and you’re getting this all from a news article. For all we know the victims are just overly suspicious. I mean, for god’s sake they just lost a family member, they’re imagining things.” 

“Dean, the victims all live in the same neighborhood. The fathers died in some horrific accident. The mothers reported the children acting clingy and almost mechanical...”

“So you’re saying we should drop everything and take a 3 hour drive to Lawrence to go interview some overly emotional mothers?” Dean shook his head, unconvinced that this case was worth the drive and secretly reluctant to return to their home town. 

“There were reports of blood stains on the outside of the childrens windows, like something tried to get in. Dean, that sounds like-” 

A screech and thump interrupted Sam’s revelation, and Dean immediately stood up, knocking his chair over and dumping his book on the floor in the process. “Cas?” Dean rushed down the hallway, Sam at his heels, to find a crumpled mound of cotton and denim sprawled in the doorway. Dean grabbed an arm and lifted the limp figure to a sitting position; Cas was drunk. 

“Cas, how’d you get back?” Sam crouched down, over the course of the past two months he had discovered that at this level he intimidated Castiel far less than he did standing at his normal height. 

“Drove.” Cas moaned. Sam frowned, looking through the open door. The pickup truck Garth had loaned the brothers was parked dangerously close to the entryway, one wheel hanging over the steps leading to the front door. “Dean.” Sam gestured towards the vehicle. 

Dean immediately regretted teaching Cas to drive. “Cas, buddy, you can’t just drive home when you’re this drunk.” Dean sighed. Cas was turning green. Dean grabbed the former angel by the shoulders, Sam lifting his feet. They carried Cas into the bathroom adjacent to Dean's room, and Dean propped Cas’ head up on the toilet bowl. Cas lurched forward, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Dean opened a cupboard and grabbed a washcloth, running it under the faucet and wringing out the excess water. He crossed the bathroom and placed the cool cloth on Cas’ neck. Sam stood in the doorway, watching with a tired expression, wondering whether he should help or if he would get in the way. As Cas lurched forward again, Dean went to his side, giving his back the occasional pat, looking more like a concerned parent than anything. Cas sat there for a while, hunched over the toilet making strained noises. Dean stood up and leaned against the counter. “Sam, you know if we have any gingerale?” Dean said without looking away from Cas. 

“I’ll get some,” offered Sam. Before Dean could protest, Sam was already out of the room, grabbing the keys to the truck from the hook by the front door. After a short drive down the highway, Sam pulled off and parked in the parking lot of the local drugstore. As soon as he was inside the store, he made a beeline for the medicine. He snagged three different types of tylenol, Childrens, Adult and some Over 50, not sure what would work best on Cas, and went to get some gingerale and some crackers, the best home remedy for a stomachache he knew of. 

Back at the bunker, Cas had his cheek pressed against the cold porcelain, shivering although he was soaked in sweat. He had effectively regurgitated everything in his stomach, and looked helplessly at Dean. “Better?” Dean asked. Cas nodded. “Lets get you cooled off.” Dean grabbed the bottom of Cas’ t-shirt and pulled it over his head. He lifted Cas to his feet and helped him over to his bed, easing him into a comfortable position so that in the case of a relapse, he wouldn't choke on his own vomit in his sleep. Dean grabbed a plastic bowl from the kitchen cupboard and brought it back to his room, setting it on the nightstand just in case Cas got sick again. Dean stood in the middle of the room, looking down at Cas, who was paler than Dean had ever seen him and looked utterly miserable. Cas shut his eyes tightly and pulled the sheets up to his neck, his strained expression slowly fading as sleep took control. When Cas’ breathing became calmer and steadier, Dean pulled a chair up to the side of his bed and sat down, watching Cas slip into a peaceful slumber. 

* * *

When Sam returned from the store, he didn’t hear the musical noises of someone vomiting echoing through the bunker. He made his way into the kitchen, setting down the bag of groceries on the counter. He proceeded to align the contents of the bag on the counter, grabbing the six-pack of gingerale and turning to stow it in the refrigerator, not expecting the figure hunched over a steaming cup of coffee. He cleared his throat and the man turned around. Kevin acknowledged Sam’s presence with a nod of his head and stalked off to his room, where he probably wouldn't be heard from for a few days. 

Sam put some Saltines on a plate and took the bottle of Tylenol to Dean’s bedroom. He peeked around the door and saw Cas asleep on the bed and Dean passed out on the leather chair he rescued from someone’s curb a few weeks ago. Sam crept in and set the plate and bottle on the bedside table. He took the old blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over Dean. Sam sighed, looking down at Dean and thinking of the countless times he came home sick or drunk and Dean fussed over him, refusing to leave his side until Sam felt better. 

Sam walked out of the room, stopping in front of Kevin’s room. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear proof that Kevin was still alive. The faint noise of shuffling papers and the canned sound of heavy music leaking from Kevin’s headphones was all the reassurement Sam needed. He continued down the hallway, suddenly feeling guilty. He had been sick for the longest time after his attempt to complete the trials, and was of no help to Dean or Kevin, in fact, the more he thought about it, he was more of a burden than anything. Sure, he was grateful that his brother didn’t abandon him, instead taking care of him and nursing him back to health. But maybe Cas wouldn't have tried drowning his emotions if his brother hadn’t been too distracted to see that the fallen angel was withering away. Sam reached his room, kicking off his shoes and jacket and crashing on his bed, succumbing to yet another night of endless nightmares, fragments of memories of the Cage and warped versions of his dead father shaking his head in disapproval.


	2. Chapter 2

“Good morning, sunshine,” Dean sang, throwing open the door and entering the room. Cas groaned, burrowing deeper into his cocoon of blankets. “C’mon, Cas, its noon.” Dean grabbed a corner of the sheet and pulled, ripping the comforter out of Castiel’s grasp. Dean crossed the room and flipped the light switch, bathing the room in intense white light. Cas whined, covering his face with his hands and tucking his head between his knees. He was blinded by pain, the bright light and sudden movement making his head spin and his stomach turn. He squeezed his head between his palms, rocking back and forth as the migraine faded into a dull ache. Castiel opened his eyes, squinting at Dean’s offering of a handful of pills and a glass of water. He sighed and accepted the offering, tipping back his head and downing the pills.

“Dean, I’m... I’m really sorry.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead. ”Dude, it's okay, just... Will you tell me when something’s wrong next time?” Dean placed the plate Sam had brought in the night before in front of Cas and left the room again, returning with a can of gingerale. Cas looked distastefully at the crackers but accepted the soda, popping it open and taking a small sip of the fizzy liquid.

Cas jumped, caught off-guard by a succession of loud thumps coming from the library. Dean left the room, rescuing Sam from a pile of books and helping him right the bookcase. Dean inspected the mess, pulling splinters of wood from the mass of books scattered on the floor.

“That isn’t supposed to just happen, right?” Dean frowned, looking from the broken bookcase to Sam, who shrugged and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Were you leaning on it?” Sam looked away guiltily. “Congratulations, you broke another bookcase.” Dean pulled a goofy smile and slapped Sam’s shoulder. Dean entered the kitchen, opening the fridge and spending a minute inspecting its contents. He sighed and closed the door. “We’re out of food. I’m gonna run to the store,” Dean announced, heading for the front door.

“Dean, wait,” Sam protested. “Charlie called, she’s in town. I’m picking her up from the airport in a few hours.” Dean nodded, grabbing the keys and kicking the door shut behind him.

 

Sam sighed. He stared at the capsized bookcase and the mess he had created, sighed again, then squatted and stacked the books on the table. The shattered bookcase empty, he rubbed his forehead and flopped down in a chair, massaging his temples. He was shaking, depending on the caffeine coursing through his veins to remain conscious because ever since he finished the trials, monsters dominated his dreams. It was better to suffer sleep deficiency than dream. He opened his laptop, staring blankly at the screen as he scrolled through pages of emails from hunters and friends, reports of strange occurrences, deaths, and disappearances. He checked his phone. Six new voicemails and eleven messages. Why wasn’t Garth taking care of this mess? Sam dialed Garth’s number and after four rings he was directed to the voicemail. He sighed and hung up, setting the phone on the table and resting his head in his hands. His eyelids drooped, the tiny muscles unable to hold their own weight, and Sam fought to remain conscious, but his exhausted body was no match for itself and he lost the battle, slipping into a restless slumber. 

Hundreds of faces, victims of his past mistakes, disembodied memories of every demon or spirit he had conquered leered at him, surrounding him and screeching, wailing, raising their voices in a cacophonous discord that rattled Sam's bones. He could do nothing to fight back. He turned and pushed against the monsters blocking his escape but they were rooted in place. They grabbed at his head, filthy fingers ripping clumps of hair from his skull. They dug their claws into his back, ripping his flesh to shreds. Sam groaned as something cold and slimy wrapped around his neck. It yanked his head back, tightening its grip on Sam’s throat until it choked him. Sam fought to free himself from the constricting tentacle but he could not tear it away. He went limp, barely conscious. The tentacle released him and he fell to the ground, collapsing in a pool of his own blood. The onslaught stopped. The deafening chorus of screams ceased to batter his ears. It was silent, except for the click of a single set of footsteps that slowly approached Sam. The footsteps came closer and closer, and Sam struggled to raise his head to face whatever horror approached. A pair of black boots, tightly sculpted around legs that could only belong to a woman, took slow, deliberate steps towards Sam, and stopped inches from his face.

Sam was no match for whatever foe loomed above him, but he raised his head to face his opponent, who stood silhouetted against the moon. The figure crouched, extending an arm towards Sam. He flinched, shutting his eyes tightly as cold fingers caressed the bruises on his neck, dragging long nails across his skin.

“See what you’ve become?” Sam recognized the voice. “You’re like us, Sam. You deserve better than this. But you sided with the angels and the hunters. You slaughtered us because you were ordered to, expected to. Because it would’ve made your daddy proud. Daddy never loved you, Sam. He saw you as a failure, you didn't try hard enough. Dean’s just like him, you know. You think he loves you? You think he cares about you? He hasn’t even noticed you yet. The Reapers are making bets on how long you’ll last, and the odds aren't in your favor, Sam. Your brother doesn’t want you around. All he wants is a warrior. A companion. Someone to order around, someone to work, someone to blame. Dean doesn’t respect you. He just wants you alive and well, so you can kill more demons and do his work for him. Dean always wanted daddy to like him, and daddy wanted you alive because your mommy died protecting you. You think Dean's protective? You think he loves you? He just wanted daddy to be proud of him, he never cared about you.”

“You’re not real.” Sam choked out, fighting to breathe through the panic rising in his chest. “You’re dead.”

The woman laughed. She grabbed the collar of Sam’s shirt and lifted him into a sitting position, in which Sam could clearly see her face. “Remember me now?”


End file.
